


Through clenched teeth

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hate Sex, Light Choking, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuor tries to have a word with Maeglin; it goes as well as could be expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evergrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evergrace/gifts).



> 0\. This is entirely givenclarity's fault for posting [this art](http://givenclarity.tumblr.com/post/132463938196/i-read-a-really-good-maeglintuor-fic-and-now-im) and making me ship the thing.

“Maeglin!”

Maeglin looked up as a voice called out his name, and his lips twisted when he saw Tuor striding over to him.

“Oh, look, it’s the beast,” he said coolly. “What have you come to bark at me about?”

Tuor ignored his jibes. “Let us go somewhere out of the way,” he said. “Somewhere more private.”

Maeglin folded his arms and looked down at him. “The better for you to assault me without intervention?”

“I am not here to assault you,” said Tuor impatiently. “I am here to talk to you.”

“Ah, yes, the Man wishes to talk rather than grapple, most uncharacteristic.” Maeglin sneered. “Perhaps we are having an influence on you, after all.”

Tuor tightened his jaw, but didn’t reply. Instead he took Maeglin by the elbow and tugged him up a nearby staircase onto one of the lesser traversed walls, one shielded by an overhang and out of the main flow of foot traffic and patrolling soldiers.

Maeglin looked down at Tuor’s hand. “Remove,” he said quietly, “your brutish paw from my person.”

But Tuor had already let him go, and he folded his arms as he squared his gaze on Maeglin. “My lord,” he said, his voice steady and low. “You know I have the utmost respect for your position and your birth; you are cousin to my wife and nephew to my liege, and I hold in the utmost regard the work you do to strengthen and safeguard the city.”

Maeglin, whose eyes had flashed dangerously at the mention of Idril, sneered. “Pretty words, son of Huor. Did you get someone to write them down for you to memorize?”

“Insult me all you like,” said Tuor, not backing down, “insult my appearance, my speech, my race, my people. Call me beast and vagrant and interloper, call me not good enough, I know that one at least is true. I don’t care. But I am here to warn – to _ask_ you to cease your endless dogging of my lady’s steps.”

Maeglin’s pale face went even whiter, his eyes almost opaque as he stared at Tuor. “I dog no one’s steps.”

“You are ever there when she turns, always seeking to insinuate your whispers to her ear and your hands to her arm. And when she rebuffs you, you turn petty and small, and make the council room your battlefield, fighting her every suggestion and weighing down any progress with endless oversight and objections. Your personal vendetta obstructs the functioning of this city.”

“Whatever you think to the contrary, I do nothing because of _personal feelings_ ,” said Maeglin. He was leaning casually against the wall, but Tuor could see every muscle in his body was tensed. “Any objections I raise are because I truly _object_.”

“Listen,” said Tuor, dropping his formal tone and leaning closer, “I understand how it can be. I know the pain of a wounded heart, and I know the burn of disappointment. But you shall recover from this rejection, and it will suit your nobility to accept this graciously, and move on… ” He had reached out a conciliatory hand to clap Maeglin on the shoulder, and Maeglin recoiled as if an eel had been draped over his neck.

“Do you seek to comfort me?” His voice was incredulous. “You impudent, presumptuous swine, how dare you? Do not speak as if you know me, as if we are familiar _._ I have tolerated your presence, you whelp of a second house, despite your clear inferiority, despite the taint you bring to our line, despite the fact that it is misguided to the extreme to trust a mud-born Man with the secrets of our city, much less with the chastity of our princess. But enough is enough, you filth, _unhand me_.”

Tuor pulled his hand back, anger bubbling up in him. “I know you do not think me good enough for Idril,” he said, “but you think I would be traitor to your city as well?”

“You are not clever enough to be a traitor,” said Maeglin shortly. “But you are stupid enough to be a liability.”

“What would you do then?” growled Tuor.  “You cannot cast me from the city, since you do not trust my tongue, but nor would you have me stay. What is the alternative? To throw me from the walls and dispose of me once and for all? Like they did to your noble father, I suppose.”

In an instant, Maeglin’s arm was at Tuor’s throat, and Tuor choked, stumbling back until his back hit the wall. “Shut your mouth,” snarled Maeglin. “Do not speak – do not speak of – You are – ” He seemed too furious for coherence, and simply drove forward, his forearm cutting off Tuor’s air, his strength frightening despite his slim build. Tuor gasped and tried to break free, but Maeglin bore down against him, his eyes murderous, until Tuor reached up and grasped at him, his broad hands wrapping around Maeglin’s arms. He dragged hard at Maeglin’s wrist until he broke the Elf’s hold on him and then they were pressed chest to chest, Maeglin’s wrists in Tuor’s hands, Maeglin’s breath hot on his face as the Elf panted against him. Tuor’s throat ached, and he could tell there would be bruises the next day.

“Devil,” he rasped at Maeglin.

“Beast,” Maeglin spat back.

They were still pressed close together, Maeglin’s weight heavy against Tuor’s body, and when he shifted slightly, Maeglin caught his breath. Tuor released Maeglin’s wrist, settling on his collar instead, his fingers catching in Maeglin’s long dark hair. Maeglin moved involuntarily, and to prevent him from going for his throat again, Tuor shoved him back against the parapet. With Maeglin’s back arched slightly against the stone and Tuor’s hand tangled in his collar, Maeglin raised a hand to grasp at Tuör’s tunic in turn. His other arm had ended up loosely hooked around Tuor’s neck.

“What is your plan now?” said Maeglin, very quietly.

Tuor breathed out. “I had only meant to talk with you. To – ”

“To keep me from _dogging_ my cousin’s steps.” Maeglin wet his lips and looked at Tuor with narrowed eyes. “Ironic choice of words, given that if one of us is a dog, it is – ”

“Shut up,” said Tuor, beyond impatience, and at the same moment Maeglin’s arm tightened around his neck, he bent forward and covered Maeglin’s mouth with his own.

Maeglin made a noise but didn’t recoil, his fingers tightening in Tuor’s tunic, his nails biting through to his skin. Tuor pressed him back against the wall, half bending him over, and he shifted his hips against Maeglin so the elf could feel his hardness. Maeglin snarled and bit at Tuor’s lips until he opened them, and in this way, at least, Maeglin’s tongue was not so sharp.

“Your insults are uninspired,” said Tuor, when Maeglin let him come up for air. “And redundant.”

“Simplicity and repetition is all the penetrates the dullard’s brain,” said Maeglin, sinking his fingers into Tuor’s hair and pulling his head back until Tuor hissed.

“And what shall penetrate you, my lord?” Tuor’s hands slid down Maeglin’s lean body to knead his thighs and then his buttocks.

Maeglin made a sound of annoyance. “Clumsily put.” His fingers were working open the ties of Tuor’s tunic, and he withdrew slightly at the sight of the heavy golden hair that covered Tuor’s chest.

Tuor waited, but Maeglin simply dragged sharp fingers down Tuor’s chest, and then surged forward to latch his mouth to Tuor’s collarbone.

Tuor groaned, unable to help it, and Maeglin moved lower, mouthing at Tuor’s chest hair, his hands sliding down to dig into Tuor’s waist. Tuor let his head fall back, his eyes closing, and as Maeglin moved lower, he murmured, “Are you going to get on your knees for me, then?”

“Never.” Maeglin sank teeth into Tuor’s flesh even as his palm rubbed roughly over the bulge in Tuor’s breeches. “But you shall get on your knees for _me_.”

And Tuor did, sinking to the ground and pulling Maeglin’s robes aside until he could get at Maeglin’s hard length beneath, and he swallowed the bitterness down until he choked.

 

* * *

 

 

It was only just past dawn, but Idril and Voronwë were early risers. Idril was sitting up against the pillows, reading, and Voronwë was propped against her knees, frowning as he mended a tear in one of his jerkins.

When Tuor slipped in, looking wan and exhausted, both Idril and Voronwë looked up. Tuor didn’t say a word, but slunk across the floor and collapsed onto the bed next to Idril, burying his face in the pillows. She reached down to stroke a hand through his tangled hair.

“Out all night, my love?” Her fingers worked free a knot in his yellow curls. “Did you speak to my cousin, then?”

Tuor groaned a little, and Voronwë rolled over and rested his chin on Tuor’s shoulder. “Wert thou an idiot, as thy lady wife predicted?”

“Yes.”

“I told you he was not one you could ‘sort out’ with bluff words and back slaps.” Idril shook her head. “And – ”

“And I fucked him on the parapet.”

“ _Tuor_ ,” said Idril and Voronwë together.

“Thou fluffy headed brick,” said Voronwë, digging his elbow into Tuor’s ribs. “Did we not tell thee he was trouble?”

“I’m good with people,” said Tuor, muffled into the pillows. “I thought – ”

“Aye, good with people indeed, good enough to slip him a sausage over the parapet, most generous of thee.”

Idril pushed at Voronwë with her toe, and he subsided as she bent over Tuor, her fingers still pulling through his hair. “Go carefully, beloved,” she said softly. “You know my heart misgives me about my cousin, and I would not have you hurt by his machinations. There is more to him than a sharp tongue and a following eye, and I do not trust his intentions, least of all with you. And Voronwë,” she said, sitting up as Tuor hid his face in her lap, “you owe me five silver Turgons. I called it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Maeglin's reference to Tuor being of a 'second house' is not an insult against the house of Huor (though that works too), but rather against his entire species - Men, or 'The Second Born.' Maeglin is rather an Elf supremacist.  
> 2\. For some reason it made sense to me that Voronwë had slightly different speech patterns from Idril and Tuor. Perhaps it's a sea-faring thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twice might be a pattern; it may just be bad timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. More Tuor/Maeglin was requested for No Shame November; I thought that as an explicit sequel to the first, this would serve as a good chapter two.

“Maeglin!”

Maeglin turned and saw the king approaching him, a smile on his face. Maeglin inclined his head slightly. “My lord.”

Turgon’s hand settled warmly on his shoulder. “Please, nephew, call me Turgon. No titles between kin, eh?” Maeglin looked at the hand on his shoulder rather than up into the king’s kind eyes. “I wanted to thank you for the work you’ve been doing on securing new seams of ore for the city. I have no doubt they will prove invaluable to us.” His fingers squeezed encouragingly on Maeglin’s shoulder. “Just like you have proved invaluable to us.” His voice had gone soft with suppressed emotion, as it often did, and Maeglin knew that if he looked up, he’d see Turgon’s eyes were over-bright. “You know your mother would be proud of you – as proud of you as I am.”

Maeglin twitched himself free as carefully as he could without it seeming a rudeness. “Thank you for your kind words, my lord. Please do excuse me, though, I promised Salgant I would meet him at the midday bell and he sulks if he is forced to wait.” He bowed politely, still never raising his eyes to Turgon’s face, and strode off, resisting the urge to clutch at his shoulder. He sought refuge blindly; the meeting with Salgant was a fiction, of course, anything to remove him from Turgon’s kindness, his warmth, his attempts to reach out,  _again_ , his attempts to be…paternal.

Something closed Maeglin’s throat like a fist, and he whisked into an empty courtyard to compose himself, dropping back against the stones of the wall and clenching his teeth until the tightness in his throat left. He swallowed once, twice, and then saw he was not alone.

Tuor was sitting on a bench, a knife in one hand and a whetstone in the other, looking startled.

“What are  _you_  doing here?” snarled Maeglin, embarrassment making him sharper than ever.

Tuor raised the whetstone in a self-explanatory way. “You have a remarkable talent for making one feel like an intruder when you are the one who burst in on what was a place of solitude,” he commented.

“It’s a knack.” Maeglin felt suddenly exhausted.

Tuor eyed him. “Are you well?”

“Perfectly.”

“You look…distressed.”

Maeglin’s tempter sparked, irritated by this show of attentiveness. “Oh, look who is suddenly solicitous! Do you feel you have some right to my well-being now, human?”

Tuor raised his eyes heavenward. “I claim no right to anything, Lord Maeglin,” he said, with measured patience. “I was simply inquiring, as any decent fellow might, but of course I can return to not giving a damn about you and your well-being if you’d prefer.” He slid the knife over the stone with a sound that made Maeglin wince. “Eru knows it would be more ingenuous.” The sudden acerbity was unlike him, and Maeglin found himself appreciating it.

“Yes, do that.” He folded his arms and watching the Man. Tuor was simply dressed as usual, and his tunic was rumpled and not laced all the way up. Maeglin could see curls of golden hair poking through the laces, and memory made him open his mouth again. “Is it something inherent to your race that you go ungroomed and disordered, or is that merely a peculiarity unique to you?”

Tuor threw the whetstone down, frustrated. “So now you make catty remarks about my appearance? I was doing nothing but minding my own business after a bout in the yards, tending my weapons in an out of the way spot, and now you come upon me and remind me that everything about my very existence is an affront to you. Do you not get tired of hating me so?” He seemed to realize he was gesturing rather fiercely with his knife, and laid it down on the bench beside him, reddening. “My father always told me there was no shame in looking unkempt, if you had earned it,” he said, more steadily. “I have been exerting myself in the practice fields, that is the reason for my disordered dress.” He smiled humorlessly. “And I have no doubt I reek of my exertion as well, so I caution you not to approach lest I offend you further.”

For some reason, the fist was back at Maeglin’s throat, and he stepped closer, trying to escape it. “You always smell offensively,” he said softly. “I cannot imagine this is any worse.” Tuor did have a distinct scent, it was true; something rich and musky, something that had lingered on Maeglin’s skin and clothes but that he could not, to himself, admit was unpleasant. It had lingered on a certain robe of his, and when he had absently slipped it back on, the scent had left him unsettled and aroused.

Tuor was still on the bench, looking up at him, and there was distinct distrust in his eyes. “I wonder what next I can do to prove objectionable to you.”

“I have no doubt that you will find something.” Maeglin reached out to pick up Tuor’s knife, interested in the patterning on the blade, and the man’s hand closed swiftly around his wrist before he could wrap his fingers around the handle. “Hm. Do not trust me with a blade in your presence?”

“No.” Tuor’s fingers tightened on Maeglin’s wrist.

Maeglin smirked. “Wise.” He turned his hand in Tuor’s grasp experimentally, seeking if he could twist free, but Tuor did not loosen his hold. Maeglin dug his fingernails into the underside of Tuor’s wrist, and Tuor made a sound but didn’t release him. “Let me go.” His voice was cool, even.

“Why should I?” Tuor was sounding sharp again, unlike himself. “You intrude on my solitude, you insult me, endlessly, and you tell me yourself not to trust you.”

Maeglin’s eyes narrowed. “I am a lord of this city.” He raised his other hand, not sure if he planned to strike Tuor, or push at him until he released him, and Tuor seized his other wrist as well.

“You tend to forget that I am a lord of this city as well,” said Tuor, and he stood up, his broad body suddenly very close to Maeglin’s. His voice had gone low, with an undercurrent of aggression that made Maeglin tense in anticipation. “Your own uncle has made it so.”

At the mention of Turgon, Maeglin felt something rise in him again, and he tried to wrench himself free of Tuor’s grasp. Unable to free his arms, he made to knee Tuor savagely in the groin, but Tuor dodged out of the way and shoved Maeglin sharply back against the wall.

“Even amongst Men, that would be considered a low blow,” he said quietly, and pressed his own knee between Maeglin’s legs, but gently, so that his thigh pressed against Maeglin’s groin. The pressure was just close enough to pain to make Maeglin catch his breath, and then, almost unconsciously, press into it. This movement almost certainly betrayed his arousal to Tuor, whose eyes narrowed. “Are we going to do this again?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

Maeglin made to spit at him, and Tuor crushed him back against the wall and covered his mouth in a rough kiss. He released Maeglin’s wrists, and Maeglin wrapped his arms savagely around Tuor’s neck and kissed him back, biting at his tongue. Tuor’s hands were already roving down Maeglin’s body, shoving up his robes to bare his thighs, and Maeglin felt himself flush at the idea of being laid bare in a nearly public space – who might walk in and see his naked, pale legs splayed around Tuor’s thick waist? He flinched, and Tuor’s hand tightened on his thigh, a wordless question. But Maeglin swallowed down his hesitation, his humiliation, and let Tuor push his robes to his waist and free his arousal, broad hands gripping Maeglin’s buttocks and lifting him against the wall. Maeglin let his full weight hang off Tuor, clutching slightly desperately at his neck, and he bit him again to temper his neediness.

“Right,” said Tuor, and dropped Maeglin, roughly spinning him around.

Maeglin choked out a protest as his face was pressed to the stone and he felt cool air against his bare backside, his robes still rucked up, and felt Tuor’s rough caress over his skin.

“I do not trust you not to bite and spit like a hellcat,” said Tuor conversationally. He squeezed at Maeglin’s buttocks, and Maeglin let out a whine and shoved himself back against Tuor’s hands as they slid down his cleft, pulling him open.

Maeglin felt the flush traveling further over his skin, knowing he was utterly exposed and laid bare to Tuor’s eyes and touch – and entirely at his mercy.

“Shall I continue?” Tuor’s voice was quiet, and for a moment, he was not touching Maeglin at all.

 _No_.

“Stop talking,” snarled Maeglin. “Just  _do_  it.”

He heard Tuor spit, and then felt thick fingers prodding at his opening, and he pressed his hot cheek against the cool stone. He imagined how they must look, him pressed to the wall, his arousal dripping against the front of his robes, Tuor still entirely clothed but for the heavy cock he was now pulling from his breeches, him being taken when anyone – anyone – could walk in.

He thought of Turgon’s kind eyes and warm hands, and gentle voice.

_“She would be proud of you.”_

He gave a groan that was almost a sob as Tuor breached him, and his erection throbbed painfully.

_“You are of great value to the city – and to me.”_

Maeglin reached desperately to take himself in hand as Tuor pushed his hair aside.

_“I am proud of you, Maeglin.”_

Maeglin spilled himself against the white stone of the wall, the white stone of his uncle’s city, and he closed his eyes, burning as Tuor pressed lips to the nape of his neck and throbbed inside him until the come dripped down his thighs.

Tuor asked him something, after, but Maeglin didn’t answer, didn’t look at him, and he felt Tuor pull out and tuck himself back into his breeches. He left, Maeglin still slumped against the wall, his knife forgotten on the bench. 


End file.
